Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (20 page)

Once again, the bookstore was deserted. Daniel wasn't behind the counter this time—instead there was an impeccably dressed older Latina woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp gaze that followed me
through the aisles. I spotted Daniel in the back, transferring books to a shelving unit and pausing to scratch vinyl in the air to a beat only he could hear, like an old-school DJ. He stopped abruptly when he saw me and yanked off a set of noise-cancelling headphones that were plugged into the phone in his pocket. I burst out laughing.

Before he could say anything, I suddenly got nervous and randomly searched the shelves in front of my face. Even though I'd barely cracked open my first couple of books, I picked out one on werewolf mythologies—it had a long chapter on the seventh son of a seventh son prophecy—and then a tome about Roman Catholic persecution of suspected lycans.

Daniel came over and sniffed the air near my head.
Again
.

“Stop doing that!”

“You really are one of
them,
aren't you?”

“The Cream Puffs?”

He blinked. “The what?”

“My band.”

“Oh. No. I meant you're a new werewolf. You survived. And it doesn't look like you're extra hairy.”

“So, you know?”

“Well, you smell like the Lebruns … and a human male. You really get around, don't you?”

“No, I really don't. How do you know the Lebruns?”

“They're kind of famous in our circles. But my family and theirs don't get along so well. Different moral philosophies, you might say. Here, let me introduce you to my
abuelita,
Mariela. She wrote that
Guide
to Shifters
book you bought and knows the history much better than I do.”

He led me over to the counter. I put down my books, prompting his grandmother to pick them up to inspect my selection. She shook her head and confiscated the one on the persecution of lycans.

“Abuela,”
said Daniel, “this is the newest member of
the Lebrun pack—”

“Sam Lee,” I broke in, reaching out to shake her hand.

She clasped mine gingerly, as if it were the last thing in the world she wanted to do. When we let go, I swear she wiped her palm on her skirt.

“Ah, the Lebruns,” she said, making a sour face.

“Don't like do-gooders?” I asked.

She snorted. “Good? Ha. Don't trust them. They aren't what they seem.”

“Already learned that the hard way.”

“They think shifting is a disease,” she said. “They believe all shifters are inherently violent, that the
human side can't control the monster's desire to kill, and the only solution is to find a cure.”

A cure sounded like a good idea to me—for girls like Queenie, who needed it.

She glanced at the book she'd taken from me. “There's a website with more up-to-date information on the persecution of our kind.”

Mariela couldn't be a wolf? I didn't see anything odd about her on the surface. I wanted to ask her what her
kind
was exactly, but it felt rude somehow.

She jotted down the web address on the back of a bookmark and passed it to me. “Our family sees lycanthropy differently. Werewolves are normal, just like humans. No better or worse. The wolf mutation is similar to, say, the ability to run really fast or to solve complex mathematical equations. It can be beneficial, and with the right training, werewolves can follow the same laws as anyone else. We're trying to create a governing body and come out of the closet, so to speak. Live in harmony with humans.”

Hmm, what she said made sense, too. “But what about the fact that so many girls don't survive the change … or come out deformed?”

Mariela frowned. “That is unfortunate. Though it could largely be avoided through genetic testing before the infection stage. Most human girls are born with
a genetic sequence that makes the transformation go wrong.”

“You're saying that being a werewolf is in my genes?” I wondered about my father's family—I knew so little about them.

“
Sí
. You were born with the potential in you,
mihija
. Just as I was born a
bruja
.”

“A what?”

“A witch.”

“Does that mean you're a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter?”

She nodded.

“Are you related to Armando Rojas?” I asked, recalling the other book I'd found at the Lebruns'.

“He is my son. The Lebruns might hate my family, but they are happy we exist. They're sending their son Owen to Armando's ranch in Argentina.”

“If they can catch him, that is,” said Daniel.

I'd thought that book was about nature preserves for wild animals, but I guess there was a deeper meaning. “Did you know that Owen's been turning a bunch of girls? And all the others are missing or stuck in between. Except me.”

“We suspected something,” said Mariela vaguely.

“He attacked me twice,” I said. “I'd do anything to see him sent away. And you know that girl gang on the
news? It's not a gang. Those are the girls that Owen has bitten.”

Daniel and Mariela glanced at each other.

“Qué barbaridad,”
murmured Mariela.

Did they know more? Did they know where Owen was?

“I'm looking for this missing girl named Sue,” I continued. “She's got curly brown hair, freckles, and one paw. She was bitten by Owen, and now she's disappeared.”

“These are mean streets,” said Mariela grimly.

“Watch your back, newbie,” added Daniel.

“Are you a werewolf, too?” I asked him.

He laughed. “What do you think?”

Not a very satisfying response. I had so many more questions for them both, but I needed to be at Wanda's studio in ten minutes. And I still didn't know if I could trust them any more than I could the Lebruns. “Okay, can I just buy this book then?”

Mariela put my book into a plastic bag without glancing at the price and handed it to me. “No charge,” she said.

Daniel touched my arm. I looked down at his hand, not sure what to expect. “Stay safe out there,” he said. “I mean it.”

I thanked them and left, feeling more confused.
So many things had changed in the past few days. But it felt good to know that someone other than the Lebruns wouldn't run screaming when they found out I was a part-time wolf.

At the studio, I manoeuvred my way past security— and two nervous production assistants who told me I was late—to enter a hallway with ceiling-high photos of Wanda dancing, laughing, horrified, and pointing a menacing finger. She was known for being fierce in her interviews. Maybe if I acted pathetic enough, she'd be kinder to me? A girl could hope.

In the green room Wanda's episode promo was beaming over the closed-circuit network: “Dudes and dudettes, don't you dare change the station, because we've got a nail-biter planned for you today! The NYPD chief of police is here to dish on the gang of teenage girls terrorizing New York City.” A series of artist's renditions and fuzzy security camera stills of the perpetrators flashed onscreen—two of the girls were definitely Queenie and Sue. The other ones I didn't recognize.

“And then,” Wanda continued, “we have super-private, super-talented songwriter Sam Lee, the girl behind indie phenom The Cream Puffs. Her concerts sell out everywhere she goes, but she's notoriously difficult to catch on camera. And in the last week, she's
been acting very strangely.” The pic of me stuffing greasy chicken into my face came onto the screen. I cringed. “Is it drugs? Or is the pressure of fame getting to her? Find out soon!”

I cracked open some orange juice and guzzled it all. One of Wanda's makeup artists came in to paint my face. Then a sound engineer mic'd me and a producer started peppering me with the same questions all interviewers ask, like “Who are you dating these days?” (no comment) and “How old were you when you realized you wanted to be a musician?” (I've written songs since I was five, and got discovered by Vinnie when Mali, Jules, and I were onstage at a local open mic). I stuttered through the conversation, more and more worried that the situation was going to blow up in my face. In a big way. On live television.

Finally, I waved the producer away so that I could listen to the interview Wanda was conducting with the police chief. He reported that there'd been more attacks last night in Queens and said that anyone with information should come forward to help the police. “The most unusual part,” explained the chief, “is that the victims say the girls were wearing dog costumes. Well, one had hind legs, anyway. And the other had pointy teeth.”

“Fake teeth and dog legs?” Wanda smirked. “They sound like circus freaks!”

“Might make them a little easier to find, though,” he said seriously.

“What kind of nut job gets dressed up to mug people?” pressed Wanda.

“The fact is they're not all robbing their victims.”

“What
are
they doing?” Wanda asked, eyes gleaming.

“We're not sure. They're extremely violent. We have reports of maulings. Oddly enough, two of the victims were butchers and were attacked on the job.”

She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Tragic. I don't know what this world's coming to. Thanks for your time, Chief Fulford. Are there any last words you'd like to say to our audience?”

“Don't trust strangers, even if they look like harmless teenage girls. We're dealing with dangerous criminals, and we need your help to bring them to justice.”

I almost jumped up and ran out of the studio right then, determined to personally keep the weregirls safe—and to stop them from hurting anyone else. They must be scared and desperate, like me. And imagine how my evil tenants would feel about a dozen of us camped out above their heads …

“Sam!” The producer snapped her fingers in my face.

“Sorry. Yeah?”

“You're up. Are you feeling all right? You're sweating a lot.”

I mopped my forehead, smearing my sleeve with creamy makeup. “Just make sure there's a fan on me.”

She jerked her head at the makeup artist, who applied more powder, then she led me out to the stage. The crowd was dancing and cheering to “Not Missing You,” which pounded through the speakers—Wanda liked to get them partying between segments to keep up the energy, and she'd been playing our music today. When I stepped through the stage door, I could smell the adrenalin. My nostrils flared. I shrank from the rush of applause.

“Put your hands together for Sam Lee, from The Cream Puffs, who wrote this song!”

I plastered on a grin and forced myself to walk over to the loveseat.

Wanda barely waited for me to sit down. “Sam! I just want to begin by saying I'm a huge fan. I got into your music through my teenage niece. And then I listened to the lyrics. They're brilliant and empowering. You do know you're a hero to many girls?”

“Oh, well, thanks,” I said. “I'm just an ordinary girl.”
I didn't add
wolf
before
girl,
but I was thinking it so hard it almost slipped out.

“Just a girl,” Wanda scoffed. “A girl who wrote a song that went platinum, who's been signed for two more albums. You get mobbed everywhere you go.”

“Not really.”

She raised one eyebrow to let me know she wasn't buying my modesty. “Your manager told me you bike around the city and shy away from the limelight. This is the first solo interview you've agreed to, well, ever.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

“You prefer that your singer, Jules Darling, take all the credit.”

“Well, she …”

“What was it like to see your first album be so successful?”

“It was a surprise,” I answered honestly. “A good one, I guess.”

She frowned. “Sam, all your fans have been worried about you lately. You're acting differently. There's the sudden meat eating. Shoving a waitress. Taking over onstage. Growling at fans. Are you okay?”

“No, actually. I've been—”

“On drugs?”

The audience gasped. I stared at my hands, knowing
I should say some crap about needing iron, but it didn't seem like enough of an excuse anymore.

“Come on, Sam. Talk to me. Your fans love you. This is the perfect opportunity to stop all those tongues from wagging. What's going on? What huge secret are you keeping?”

I cleared my throat. I couldn't hide. I had to face this.

“I'm … not … an addict,” I stuttered. Ugh. That was convincing.

“The photos tell a different story. You've been acting kind of, well, insane.”

I gripped my hands together. I had no explanation to give the world that wouldn't confirm her accusation. “First of all, in no way is this any of your business,” I said. “Or anyone else's, for that matter.”

“Oh, my sweet lord,” said Wanda. “You're gay, aren't you?”

Hair sprouted on the backs of my hands. I squeezed them so tight, I grunted in pain. “Uhn.”

Both of Wanda's eyebrows rose. She turned to look directly at the nearest camera. “We need to cut for a commercial now, folks, just when the conversation's getting good. Stick around for more with the remarkable Sam Lee in just a moment!”

The sound of an ad for laundry detergent swelled,
then dropped, and a comedian came running out to keep the crowd warmed up.

“The ratings are gonna be through the roof!” yelled the producer who'd prepped me, giving Wanda a thumbs up.

“Cut the onstage mics!” Wanda ordered with a flick of her wrist. “I need to talk to Sam.” She leaned over and patted my shoulder. “No hard feelings. I just outed you on television, didn't I?”